


The Blackwater Job

by RudyRed34



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Not Beta Read, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Canon, Swearing, feedback is welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RudyRed34/pseuds/RudyRed34
Summary: "So what the hell happened in Blackwater, anyway?"The Blackwater job was such a shit-show, no one is entirely sure what happened - not even Dutch. But if you layer all their points of view together, maybe you can start to make some sense of the mess.Each chapter follows a different character, with some overlap in timelines.





	1. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“Just look at ‘em!” Hosea said - now speaking in his normal voice - as he gestured at the tableau of urban growth. “They’re desperate to be seen as modern and civilized, just like the cities out East. And the easiest mark is a man with something to prove.”
> 
> Arthur reined Boadicea to the side of the road to let a wagon laden with lumber pass. She snorted and tossed her head as she danced nervously; she didn’t like this much traffic. “He’s also the most dangerous, sometimes,” Arthur said.'

“Dutch, I’ve known you too long to sugar-coat things. It’s a bad plan.”

Arthur’s blue-eyed gaze slid from Hosea, who had just finished speaking, to Dutch, who stood with his arms crossed on the opposite side of the tent. For his part, Arthur kept his post by the tent flap closest to Hosea and said nothing; he’d learned years ago not to get in the middle of it when these two old men disagreed.

“It has the  _ potential _ to be a good plan. Maybe,” Hosea continued. “If we had more time. But this ferry is leaving tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve been here too long already,” Dutch replied, using his thumb to spin the large gold ring on his middle finger. “I can just feel the Law breathing down our necks. We need to get out of here soon, and this ferry job could be the ticket.”

“The Law!” Hosea scoffed. “We haven’t done anything to draw the attention of the Law. Everyone’s been doing a real good job at laying low, staying out of trouble - ”

“‘Ceptin’ the night Sean spent in jail for getting in a fight,” Micah interrupted. He was standing - lurking - right by Dutch’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the dirty looks that Arthur kept shooting him. “And that drunk fella Karen robbed. And - ”

“Shut it, Micah,” Arthur barked. He knew exactly what Micah was doing. It was the same thing he’d been doing ever since he joined the gang some months back. He was finding Dutch’s buttons and pushing them - that was all he did, push people’s buttons, sometimes to get what he wanted and sometimes just for the hell of it, and the worst part was that he was damn good at it.

Micah held up his hands in a sarcastic gesture of surrender and took a step back, but the damage was already done. Dutch nodded, lost in thought, and continued to twist his ring. “It’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Hosea,” he mused. “Think of where we could go with that kind of money.”

“We’d go right into the ground,” Hosea retorted, his tone sharper as he lost his patience. “I don’t give a damn if it’s a million dollars - dead men can’t spend any of it.” He grabbed Dutch’s elbow to shake him out of his reverie; it was a gesture that only he had the privilege to even attempt. “I have  _ leads _ , Dutch. Arthur and I do.  _ Good _ leads. We can still get good money without running into a harebrained, half-baked scheme based on suspect information that would probably get half of us killed.”

“Hey, my information’s good!” Micah protested, his face flushing with anger under his blond handlebar mustache.

“Even if it’s good, it’s incomplete,” Hosea said. He returned his attention to Dutch. “We  _ need. More. Time. _ ” 

Dutch pursed his lips and stroked his ink-black mustache as he weighed his options. Finally, he came to a decision. “All right. You and Arthur go into town. Follow your leads.”

Hosea patted Dutch’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks and victory. “C’mon, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t give Micah the dignity of a final glance before following Hosea out of the tent. “We making a move on that banker you had me follow?”

“Nathaniel Rose, yes. Put on something a little nicer, please. We'll need to look the part.”

Arthur complied, returning to his bunk and changing into a clean flannel shirt and dark wool vest. Over that he wore his tan coat; though it was May, a cold front had swept through in recent days, lending a fragility to the budding hopes of springtime. To finish the look, he cleaned up his hat a bit with a soft cloth. When he reunited with Hosea by the horses, the older man had changed into a crisp white shirt with a black necktie and brocade vest. 

Hosea gave Arthur an appraising look. “All right. I can work with that.” He swung into the saddle of his mare Silver Dollar, whose coat was as gray as his hair, and nudged her away from camp. “I was originally thinking you could play my son, but now I'm thinking you're more of the bodyguard type.”

“And who exactly am I bodyguarding?” Arthur asked as he mounted his buckskin mare Boadicea and directed her to follow Silver Dollar. 

“Reginald Koeman, at your service,” Hosea said in a New York accent, tipping his hat with a flourish. “A businessman from out East looking to expand my investments. Clearly a man of my stature needs a little extra protection in the wilds of the West, and that’s where  _ you  _ come in, Abner Monday.”

“I wouldn't call Blackwater ‘wild’  _ or  _ ‘the West.’”

“Ah, but a dandy from New York would,” Hosea replied, still speaking in the accent. 

“I suppose so.”

They rode out of the copse in which the gang had set up camp and descended a sandstone ridge, following a quick-flowing stream that emptied into the Upper Montana River. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun beat down on Arthur's back, chasing away some of the unseasonable chill. Below, Flat Iron Lake glittered gray-blue, and on its banks Blackwater’s streets traced a neat grid. Occasionally a skeletal iron crane poked above the rooftops, hauling a pallet of bricks; the regular  _ tok-tok-tok _ of hammer-blows echoed off the sandstone bluffs.

“Just look at ‘em!” Hosea said - now speaking in his normal voice - as he gestured at the tableau of urban growth. “They’re desperate to be seen as modern and civilized, just like the cities out East. And the easiest mark is a man with something to prove.”

Arthur reined Boadicea to the side of the road to let a wagon laden with lumber pass. She snorted and tossed her head as she danced nervously; she didn’t like this much traffic. “He’s also the most dangerous, sometimes,” Arthur said. “Ssshhh, easy there, girl.” He gave Boadicea a reassuring pat, then smoothed her coarse black mane against her buff neck.

“I highly doubt Mister Rose will give us much trouble. Now where’s this saloon he frequents?”

It was the Blackwater Hotel, actually - no doubt Mr. Rose thought himself above the sort who would frequent a saloon. The building had an uncanny crispness to its appearance that indicated it was a new addition to the town; Arthur could practically still smell the paint on its mint green porch. When he had tailed Mr. Rose for several days at Hosea’s request, the banker had gone to the hotel every evening for supper; Hosea concluded from this that the young man was therefore unmarried, and no doubt eager to gain a more prominent position in the West Elizabeth Co-Operative Bank, to make himself a better suitor - in other words, a man with something to prove.

They hitched their horses outside the hotel. Inside, they found a well-furnished dining area with bright white walls and polished brass accents. The clientele was still somewhat sparse at this time of day - the dinner rush hadn’t yet arrived - and consisted mostly of men dressed in sharp clothing, presumably guests of the hotel, and a quartet of women in large hats enjoying some tea. As he always did when entering a new space, Arthur tallied the number of guns worn on occupants’ hips - and then tallied how many occupants looked like they could actually use said guns. The ratio seemed to get wider and wider with each passing year as Johnny-come-latelies from out East, with gun belts so new the leather was still stiff and shiny, swarmed the train stations to catch that ineffable experience of the Wild West before it was gone for good.

“Let’s go up to the bar, order some food and a few drinks, then snag us a table,” Hosea instructed under his breath. “When Rose arrives, you go join that poker game over there.”

“You got it, boss,” Arthur said in a normal volume. He tipped his hat to the women having tea, who he’d noticed were watching him with great interest. They giggled with embarrassment when they realized they’d been caught; a few blushed, and one hid her face with her hand.

By the time Nathaniel Rose arrived, the dinner rush was in full swing, and almost all the tables were occupied. “And there he is,” muttered Hosea. Taking his cue, Arthur picked up his glass of beer and meandered across the room, making a point not to look at their mark. As he approached the trio of men playing poker, he heard Hosea call out in his New York accent, “My good sir! Are you looking for a table? My companion has relinquished his seat for the time being; you're more than welcome to it, if you're willing to share with a weary traveler.”

Hosea continued to spin his web; Arthur kept one ear on that and the other ear on the eddies of gossip that swirled around him. Hosea and Dutch had always told him that job opportunities were everywhere, if you were alert enough to catch them. One of the other poker players mentioned a famous actress coming to town to perform at the Blackwater Theater; a woman two tables over regaled her companions with the story of a wealthy widow who was seeking a second wife. Arthur filed each tidbit away for later use. It was his turn in poker; two of the other players had already folded, leaving just him and one other person. “I'll call,” he said, rapping the table with a knuckle. He won the hand; the other guy had bet everything on getting a straight from the river, but didn’t get the card he needed; instead he wound up with just a Jack high. Arthur had a pair of tens - normally not much, but in this case it was enough.

The unlucky player - fellow with a big, bushy dark mustache, name of Quigley - sighed and leaned back in his chair, shrugging. “So it goes, I guess. It was high risk, but it was high reward.”

“‘High risk, high reward’ usually turns out to be ‘high risk,  _ no _ reward,’” Arthur replied as he scooped the pile of coins towards his side of the table. Behind him, he heard Hosea bid their mark a fond farewell, followed by the scrape of a chair against the floor. He kept his attention focused on the game, waiting until Hosea was right behind him.

“Well, Mister Monday,” Hosea said, still in his New Yorker persona, “I’ve secured our rooms for the evening; the hotel is sending one of their boys to take care of our horses. All this travel has exhausted me, so I will be turning in for the evening. Try not to lose your paycheck, yes? I won’t give you an advance on the next. And I’ll need you up bright and early tomorrow. We have business at the bank first thing.”

Arthur twisted in his chair and looked up at Hosea. It was only by dint of their long relationship that Arthur could tell Hosea was barely concealing his excitement; the man truly was a master actor. “Yes sir. Don’t you go worrying about me.”

“Your boss seems like a right asshole,” Quigley remarked once Hosea had retreated upstairs.

“Eh, you know how those New York types are,” Arthur said as he studied his cards. “At least the pay’s good.”

“Not that you need it, seems like. You’re a regular card-sharp.”

“Not this time.” Arthur tossed his hand to the dealer. “I got nothing.”

He played a few more hands before retiring, having won himself a tidy sum - whiskey money. The room Hosea had rented for him was nice, so nice that it made Arthur anxious thinking about how much it must have cost. But Hosea always said that you had to spend money to make money; people were always more willing to give their money to people who already  _ had _ a lot of money, and so for a con to be successful you had to keep up the illusion of wealth, if only for a little while. Arthur sat on the bed and removed his boots.  _ May as well enjoy it while you can _ , he told himself.  _ Never know when you’ll next get to sleep on a featherbed. _

It turned out, however, that there was such a thing as too much luxury. Arthur slept horribly, and when he arose to the sound of Hosea knocking on his door the next morning, his back ached and popped when he stretched. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbled, throwing on his clothes and splashing some water from the wash basin on his face. He raked his fingers through his sandy-blond hair and examined his stubble in the mirror; normally he’d shave, but the insistence behind Hosea’s knocking told him there wasn’t time.

“Indulge a little too much last night?” Hosea asked (still in a New York accent) when Arthur opened the door.

“Bed’s too damn soft,” Arthur retorted.

“You’re turning into a regular wild man. Come! We have an appointment with Mister Rose to discuss the terms of a loan.”

Arthur followed Hosea out of the hotel and towards the stable. One of the hands, seeing them approach, ducked inside and reappeared a few moments later with Silver Dollar on a halter. “I’ll get your mounts saddled up right away, Mister Koeman,” the hand, a teenager with gangly limbs, called out.

“Much appreciated, son - ”

Hosea was interrupted by several loud pops. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end, and as he turned towards the source of the sound he drew his pistol without thinking. He knew the sound of gunfire anywhere.


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch smiled. John knew that smile - he’d seen it so many times before. It was the smile of a wolf with the scent of prey in his nose; it was the smile of a fox who had outwitted the hounds chasing him. And, after Dutch had outlined his plan to the gang and dismissed them for the evening, many of them shared that smile.

Pearson’s stew was shit, but what else was new? John scraped the bottom of his tin plate with his bowl to get the last bits of potato and cabbage, bringing the rim of the bowl to his lips and tipping his head back. Abigail, sitting next to him on the log they’d pulled up next to the campfire, elbowed him in the ribs and he almost choked. “ _What?_ ” he coughed.

“Could you at least _try_ to eat like a civilized person? For Jack’s sake?”

John glanced over at Jack, who was sitting on the other side of Abigail and seemed more interested in pretending the various vegetables in his stew were warships than in actually eating them. “Jack! Eat your supper, boy.” Jack cringed, his shoulders going up around his ears, and John felt a flash of guilt mixed with frustration. Seemed like every time he tried talking to the boy, he’d wind up scaring him instead.

“Yes, eat up - everyone,” Dutch said, swooping into the center of the camp with his arms spread. “And get plenty of rest. I’m going to need all of you for a job early tomorrow morning. A _big_ one. Maybe the biggest.”

“What kind of job?” Javier asked.

Dutch spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, and slowly turned so he could address each person in turn. “Tomorrow morning, the Blackwater ferry is going to be casting off with a hundred and fifty _thousand_ dollars on board. And we’re gonna take it.”

A nervous murmur rippled through the camp. John’s chest constricted at the amount, and his mouth went dry. Abigail grabbed his knee and squeezed. Bill let out a low whistle. “Why not hit the ferry tonight?” Charles suggested, gesturing with the knife he was using to cut buckskin into thong. “It would give us more time - less likely to make mistakes. Less likely to be seen, too.”

“That’s a no-go, Geronimo,” Micah interjected, swaggering to Dutch's side. He planted his hands on his hips, right above his guns, as though daring anyone to challenge his impertinence. “They won't be loading the money onto the ferry until tomorrow morning. For some reason, they're hesitant to leave that much cash on the boat overnight.”

“Which means we'll have a slim window to do the job,” Dutch concluded. “Everyone will need to give me their best performance tomorrow. But I have full confidence in each and every one of you. You haven't let me down yet.”

A quiet settled over the camp as each person basked in Dutch's words. It was incredible, John thought, how Dutch could make each and every person feel special and unique and wanted even when he was addressing them as a group. No wonder he was their leader - he could inspire like no one else.

“Is that why Arthur and Hosea went in to town?” Lenny asked. “To get ready for this ferry job?”

“Arthur and Hosea are working on a side job. Don’t you go worrying about them. Jenny, Karen - can you fill in? We’ll look less suspicious as a group if there are some women amongst us.”

“Of course, Dutch!” Jenny said, tucking her mahogany hair behind her ear. Karen raised her tin cup of whiskey in agreement.

“So what’s the plan?” John asked. Abigail squeezed his knee again; he couldn’t tell if she was excited or nervous. Maybe both - it would echo his own feelings. He and Javier exchanged glances: _A hundred and fifty thousand dollars!_

Dutch smiled. John knew that smile - he’d seen it so many times before. It was the smile of a wolf with the scent of prey in his nose; it was the smile of a fox who had outwitted the hounds chasing him. And, after Dutch had outlined his plan to the gang and dismissed them for the evening, many of them shared that smile.

Abigail did not. “Are you sure about this, John?” she whispered as, in front the tent she shared with the other girls, she watched him clean his pistols. Jack was already asleep, bundled under a couple blankets in the back of the tent.

“Dutch is sure about it, and that’s good enough for me. Don’t you trust him?” John also kept his voice low.

“I do! Lord knows I do. It’s Micah I don’t trust.”

John couldn’t argue with that. Nobody seemed to actually _like_ Micah - except maybe the Callander brothers - but he’d saved Dutch’s life once, and that meant he had a spot in the gang in perpetuity, Dutch’s sense of honor and loyalty being almost dangerously strong. And even John had to admit that he was one of the quickest guns around. John checked the sights on his revolver, then loaded the cylinder. “Forget Micah. Dutch wouldn’t have us go through with the plan if Micah’s info was bad.”

“I hope you’re right.” With a sigh, Abigail sat down next to John and began unpinning her black hair, letting it down in thick sections until it tumbled down her shoulders and back. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Ain’t I always?” John put his revolver away and wrapped one arm around Abigail. He kissed the top of her head, enjoying the scent of her hair; she brushed rosewater through it, and so she always smelled like springtime.

She looked up at him. “No - you ain’t. That’s why I gotta keep reminding you.”

“Well, then I promise I’ll be careful as long as you’re around to remind me.”

Abigail scoffed, but then she kissed him, bringing one hand up to caress his smooth cheek. He pulled her closer, holding her so tightly he could feel the wings of her scapulae beneath her wool tartan jacket. This push and pull between antagonization and affection had become comfortingly familiar to John - so much so that, if they went too long without an argument, he would make a smartass comment about Abigail getting older, or behave extra friendly towards one of the other girls in camp. Anything to get a rise out of her. She did the same thing, he was sure of it, especially with the way she would berate him about spending time with Jack or setting a good example or whatever it was.

In the back of the tent, Jack stirred and whimpered. Abigail untangled herself from John’s embrace and knelt next to her son, caressing his plump cheek with the back of her hand and making gentle shushing noises. John watched her for several moments; his heart welled with a strange mixture of pride and resentment, so full he felt like if he spit only hot, pure emotion would come out. He abruptly stood, knowing that if he stuck around much longer he’d say something stupid and set Abigail off again, and he wanted to end the night on a good note. “I’m gonna go check on the boys, make sure they’re ready for tomorrow,” he said. He walked towards the boys' tent and didn’t return the rest of the night.

As the sun peeked over the waters of Flatiron Lake the next morning, the gang hitched the horses to one of the wagons, and John and Jenny clambered into the seat. As John took up the reins, Karen and Sean climbed into the wagon bed and settled on one of the sideboards; the were all dressed in the most respectable attire they could muster, and the women kept their pistols hidden in their skirt pockets. Each couple also carried a carpet bag; inside were sawed-off shotguns and extra ammunition. Dutch, Micah, Charles, Lenny, the Callander brothers, Bill, and Javier mounted their horses as John maneuvered the wagon out of camp; they would enter town a little after the wagon did.

“Who should we be?” Jenny asked John. “Siblings or married couple?”

“Let’s do siblings this time,” John said. He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue, and the horses broke into a sprightly trot.

“All right. We’re the Macdonough siblings, James and Maisie - we just finished burying our spinster aunt, poor Aunt Griselda, who lived in New Austin, and now we’re headed back east.” Jenny was second only to Hosea in the ability to spin a complete life history wholecloth.  She craned her neck to speak to Karen and Sean. “How about you?”

Karen was still pinning up the last of her blond hair. “Newlyweds, of course,” she mumbled around the hair pins clamped in her full lips. “Shotgun wedding. Heading home to break the news to our families.” She cursed as the wagon hit a rut and jolted to the side, causing her bun to go askew.

“Why’s it always a shotgun wedding?” Sean protested, his freckled face flushing almost as red as his hair.

“It’s a good story! Makes people so awkward they stop asking questions.”

“Yeah, but then they won’t stop looking at you.”

“Nah, that’s just you being paranoid.”

“What’re the names of the happy couple?” Jenny interrupted. When Karen and Sean hesitated, she chuckled. “I’m thinking the Fergusons. You look like Fergusons. The axle of your wagon broke on the way to Blackwater, but lucky for you the Macdonoughs drove by.”

Even though it was still early when the wagon arrived in Blackwater, the streets were already crawling with workers filing into construction sites and onto the docks. John steered the wagon to a side street a discreet distance away from where the ferry was berthed and brought the horses to a halt. He grabbed his carpet bag and hopped off the wagon, his bootheels clicking on the cobblestone street. “All right, let’s get this started.”

The four made their way to the ferry - a large steamship with circular paddles, painted a jaunty red, on either side; the cabin was two stories high. They purchased their tickets and filed up the gangplank, pausing once they were aboard. “Ladies, why don’t you ahead and make yourself comfortable inside?” John said. “I’m going to explore a bit.”

“Don’t be too long,” Jenny said. She and Karen hooked arms amicably and retreated up the stairs to the passenger cabin. Sean tipped his bowler hat to John and leaned against the railing, guarding the carpet bags they had set down on the deck next to the gangplank. His gaze scanned the shore for any signs of lawmen.

John ambled around the deck, which was actually quite narrow; the massive cabin took up most of the available footprint. The lower level of the cabin had just a few portholes spaced at intervals, and several sets of large doors; this was the employee area, where the boilers, fuel, and other equipment were located. It was also where the cargo was stored. John followed a deck hand carrying a bale of furs through an open set of doors; inside, the space was crowded with crates stacked between wooden support pillars, and the air had a distinct animal smell from a handful of cows penned to one side, which mixed with the smell of burning coal from the boilers.

Towards the stern of the cargo bay was what appeared to be a closed-off office area; two bored-looking guards sat in chairs next to the one door, repeating rifles draped in their laps. They perked up as they spotted John wandering through the cargo with no clear purpose. He noticed them noticing him and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Is that the head?”

“What? No, God. Go back upstairs, mister - it’s clearly marked,” the older of the two guards replied.

“Sorry about that! Thanks.” John made his way out of the cargo area and rejoined Sean at the railing. “Just two,” he muttered as he pulled out a cigarette and put it to his lips.

“Is that all, then? Would’ve expected more.” Sean smirked. “We could probably take ‘em ourselves. Wanna have a go? Give Dutch a nice surprise when he arrives?”

John refused to reply as he lit his cigarette and took the first drag. The gambit worked; as he exhaled, he spotted the rest of the gang (minus Charles, who would watch the horses and cover the gang’s escape) approaching the ferry. “Speak of the devil,” John said as Dutch directed Bill and Javier to pick up some cargo and carry it aboard the ferry; the Callander brothers and Lenny took up lookout posts on the docks. As Dutch strode up the gangplank, John held up two fingers and then jerked a thumb towards the stern. Dutch gave no indication that he saw the signal as he stooped and picked up the carpet bags, passing one to Micah. John and Sean retreated upstairs to the passenger cabin, where Jenny and Karen waited. Their job would be to control the civilians while Dutch and the rest took the money.

The four of them claimed seats near each of the two stairwells that led down to the main deck, Karen and Sean on one side and Jenny and John on the other. Then they waited; John, Jenny, and Karen were too nervous to talk, while Sean was too nervous to shut up. If none of the passengers attempted to go down to the lower deck, Dutch and the boys could get in and out with no one the wiser. John prayed the unseasonably cool weather would keep everyone inside the cabin.

As though having heard John’s thoughts, a man a little older and heavier than him abruptly stood and started walking down the aisle that ran between the rows of seats. For a brief moment John hoped he was just going to speak to another passenger, but as the man strode closer and closer to the stairs, that hope was dashed. _All right then,_ John thought, his mouth set in a determined line, as he reached for his pistol.

Before he could stand, Jenny was past him, blocking the path of the passenger, “I’m sorry sir - do I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

The man, who wore a heavy work shirt and jacket with a gun belt, frowned. “No, you don’t - ”

“Yes! Yes, I remember now! You’re the gentleman who helped me when my horse threw a shoe south of Strawberry! Why, I never got the chance to thank you properly!” As Jenny continued to dissemble, John slowly removed his hand from the grip of his pistol; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sean do the same. He turned his attention to the large windows of the passenger cabin, watching for Dutch and the boys to make their exit. If Jenny could stall for long enough, they might still get out of here without needing to draw any iron on civilians.

“Ma’am,” the man said, his face reddening with irritation, “you’re mistaken - ”

“Oh, I woulda been lost if it weren’t for you, sir!” Jenny said, pretending not to have heard him. “I thought I was a goner - I heard the wolves around there are especially mean, and I coulda sworn I heard them starting to howl - ”

“ - Ma’am - ”

“ - And all I could think about was my poor aging mother, and what was she gonna do if her only child got eaten - ”

“ - if you’d excuse me - ”

What was taking Dutch so long? The guards would have been easy to overpower, there being only two of them. The volume of the conversation was quickly rising, and with it his anxiety. Was the safe tougher than they expected? Or -

There was a blast - two blasts? - so close that John’s ears rang as without thinking he stood and drew his revolver and blew a large, wet hole in the head of the passenger Jenny had been talking to before she’d even hit the ground. A pistol clattered from the passenger’s hand; Jenny clutched at her stomach, and red flecked with black seeped out from between her fingers. “Everybody get on the fucking ground and don’t move!” John roared, not bothering to wipe the flecks of gray brain matter from his face.

Karen rushed to Jenny’s side as the passengers, whimpering and crying, complied. “What the fuck?” Sean said, his pistol out in a mirror image of John. “What the fuck? Why the fuck did he do that? What the fuck just happened?”

“Shut up! How is she?” John dared to spare a glance down at Jenny, who hadn’t yet made a sound; she was pale, her eyes wide and glassy and darting around the cabin.

“John, we need to get her out of here fast,” Karen began, but was interrupted by several loud pops from the direction of the docks.

“Who the fuck’re they?” Sean cried, craning his neck to see what was going on outside.

John followed Sean’s gaze. First he saw Davey Callander and Lenny ducking behind some bales of cotton, shooting at… someone. He traced the line of their fire towards a wagon and spotted two men taking cover behind it. Then he spotted the puffs of gunsmoke of yet more adversaries, and yet more - Jesus, there had to be a dozen of them. Where the hell had they come from?

And then Dutch and Micah emerged from the cargo area of the ferry, each carrying an obviously heavy carpetbag in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other. Right behind them were Javier and Bill, unleashing a protective fusillade of bullets with the repeating rifles they'd liberated from the guards as Micah and Dutch sprinted down the gangplank to the docks.

“Let’s go,” John barked, holstering his revolver and stooping to pick up Jenny. Though he was as gentle as he could be, she let out a little wail, like a puppy not yet old enough to open its eyes. “It’s gonna be okay, darling,” he lied. “It’s gonna be okay.”


End file.
